


Impotent

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Istanbul (1985), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Impotence, No Underage Sex, Oral Sex, Pedophilia, Power Imbalance, Rejection, Romance, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Dysfunction, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A middle-class girl is already suffering hurt pride when she is forced to eat at a soup kitchen between jobs, and her worst fears come true when a strung-out homeless man begins harassing her. When an attractive drifter comes to her rescue, however, things change. Admitting her growing feelings for him will take a battle with her stigma against the homeless, but more stands between them than pride. Her drifter is hiding dark secrets she would rather not discover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Istanbul fanfic in the sense that I stole the main character from Istanbul (1985, starring Brad Dourif), and placed him in a new setting, with new characters, and a different plot. If you have never seen Istanbul, then just consider it an original work.

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I had nervously descended into the old church’s basement, where hundreds of people were milling around a make-shift dining hall. It looked like a refugee camp, and smelled of unwashed human bodies. A constant hum of voices blended into the din.

This place wasn’t for me. I wasn’t homeless or mentally ill, I was from a middle-class family. I had my own apartment. I was only here because my new job didn’t start until next week and I had to make the $57 in my bank account last until the first paycheck came in. So there I was, standing in a soup kitchen with ragged homeless people, drug addicts, and underpaid laborers.

The first thing that stood out about him was how shockingly blue his eyes were. They bulged with the intensity of his stare, and caught my attention like gleaming sapphires from across the room. His angular face, framed with soft brown hair, was remarkably handsome. He looked clean and well-dressed, and my heart fluttered with the possibility that he was just between jobs like me.

 _Why should you hope that?_ I mentally jabbed myself. _You're here too, aren't you? No point acting superior, asshole._ Still, I couldn't help but frown in disappointment, and force myself to stop staring when I noticed the large duffel bag he clung to as if it contained all his worldly possessions.

 _A drifter_.

A flood of warnings whispered in the back of my skull. _Homeless._ _Dangerous. Addict. Thief. Rapist. Danger. Stay away._ I resolved to mind my own business and play on my cell phone until I could get my lunch, and go. If I didn't interact with anyone, I'd be left alone, and I could get through this meal in peace. Fate, however, had other plans for me.

I heard the seductively whispered words across the dining hall long before I realized they were directed at me.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” the voice purred. I looked up from my phone, and realized with horror the words were coming from an old man staring directly at me, slowly slinking through the line with a sick grin on his face. He slipped in line next to me, close as a lover. Close enough that I could smell his hot putrid breath hanging like a mist in my face. He was far more muscular than you'd expect from a white-bearded homeless man, with exposed arms carved of solid oak.

 _Oh god. Oh god. Why me? Please don't let this be happening._ I thought, mind racing. He opened with, “Hey baby,” and told me how nice he thought I looked. When he asked if I wanted to go somewhere private with him, I politely declined, and kept inching away, hoping that he would see I was in line for food, and not interested. He hounded me through my retreat as if we were attached by a magnet, hungry eyes violating my body. There were too many people around for him to do anything aggressive here, but if I tried to leave and he followed… When the lunch was over and he still hung around me… _Oh god, why me? Can't you tell I'm not on your level? Go hit on one of the homeless ladies!_ “Come on baby, don't be such a tease.” he insisted, licking his lips.

Suddenly, like a white knight, that blue-eyed drifter was by my side, taking my hand firmly in his. I almost jerked away, but he calmly met my eyes and said, “Hey Reggie,” which wasn't quite my name, “Is this guy bothering you?” He turned his fierce stare to my assailant and told him to get lost. “She's taken.” Even though this transient was much scrawnier than him, the muscular old man respected his claim over me with a polite resignation. _What the fuck? I can say no, and he won't take a hint, but the minute another man says I'm_ his _… ugh. What the actual fuck._

The drifter grinned as he watched the larger man retreat back into the crowd, pleased with his deception. By the coyote look in his eye, I could see that this was less a rescue, and more an opportunity for him to put on a charade. _A drifter_ and _a trickster._ Once the old creep had slunk back into the crowd, I let out a long-held sigh. Looking down, I realized my fingers were still intertwined with the stranger's. I dropped his hand sheepishly. He seemed to notice me for the first time, then, and his face flushed when he realized he'd had my hand for so long.

“Sorry.” he muttered quickly, “We don't have to hold hands or nothin', but maybe I should stick around until that guy leaves.”

I nodded, grateful for his protection, though I still couldn't trust him. _Drifter. Homeless. Dangerous._ For all I knew they were together on this performance-- a dazzling "rescue" to woo an unsuspecting mark. Even if they weren't (and he seemed too pleased with his little game for them to really have been working together), just because he swooped in like a hero didn't mean he wasn't after the exact same thing. Maybe he would ask to walk me home, “just in case,” and then he'd have my address. Still, he _was_ cute, for a vagrant. He was obviously bathing and brushing his teeth somewhere, and he dressed in a sharp button-down shirt. He was only a few inches taller than me, and lankier than “here kitty” man. His lack of physical imposition put me at ease, and I invited him to sit and eat with me when I finally got my lunch.

He didn't make eye contact much, as if he was afraid to shoot me with the blue beams of his eyes. He looked almost anywhere else; around the room, at his plate of chili and slightly expired fruit. It felt like _I_ was the one intimidating _him_.

“Hey, my name's Althea, by the way, not Reggie.”

He looked up suddenly, startled by the broken silence. “My name's John.” he said, then frowned deeply, carving lines across his forehead. He looked at me very seriously, “But sometimes it's Martin.”

“Well, it's nice to meet you…. John-Martin.” I chuckled. He beamed back at me and cackled with delight. _This guy is kind of nuts,_ I thought. _But not a bad nuts._

He opened up after that, and as we got talking I couldn't help but be pulled in by his biting observations of the types of people he'd met in his time traveling. I found out he had a pet peeve against hotels, and trains, and buses, and just about anywhere he considered dirty. Even here was too filthy and crowded, but he had to come eat. He fidgeted in his seat that far too many others had sat in before him. There was something charming in his quirks. Something about the way he flashed his smile, and frowned when I spoke, like he was so focused on listening. I found myself picking at my food, hoping to prolong our lunch together.

We walked out together, and I feared we would part ways there on the sidewalk, when a gorgeous Tesla Model S swept silently by. John's head swiveled on his shoulders to watch it, and that's when I discovered his passion for cars.

“John.” I whispered fervently, clasping his shoulder. “I need you. I need you to teach me everything you know.”

He jumped at the sudden contact, eyes widening quizzically. 

That job I was starting next week? Automotive blogging. I'd worked as a freelance journalist before, but I knew almost nothing about cars. I was terrified that my new employers would realize that, and I'd be back at the soup kitchens within a month.

John had the kind of first-hand experience I needed. He loved to hitchhike, not so much for the strange people you meet (for John seemed to have a general distrust of people), but to sample so many different cars. In his ten years on the road, he'd seen just about every kind of car, and remembered them all.

He flashed his toothy, coyote smile to tell me he was happy to share his knowledge.

We spent the rest of the day stalking around parked cars like a pair of creepers. While he pointed to features in the interior, I imagined it looked like we were casing a car to steal it, and I liked that. A long-suppressed bad girl rattled her cage inside me, and I felt a seed of impulsiveness growing. John couldn't help but pick on me when he needed to explain basic things like what a spoiler is, and what it does. Every now and then a really hot car would zip by, and he'd try, ultimately hopelessly, to explain what about it was so exciting.

After a few hours wracking my brain, I tired of my lessons, but not of John's company. We were both unemployed and had nowhere to be, so we went down to the river and skipped rocks. The afternoon sun glinted on his wavy brown hair, and I found myself staring every time his back was turned. John's flat stone flew over the water's glassy surface like a weightless nymph, leaving a perfect line of rippled circles where its graceful footfalls touched down. Mine plunked in like an ordinary rock. After about ten disappointing splashes turned me into a stomping child throwing a tantrum, he took my hand and guided me. The tiny hairs on my arm stood up as he showed me the proper form, the flick of the wrist as we held the rock steady and flat. He slowly released me set up in the correct position, and I threw, following his movements. I got a single skip, and leaped for joy. He laughed and teased me, but there was kindness in his eyes.

I showed him my favorite coffee shop in town, and told him about the steamed maple milk I'd be buying when I had a paycheck to spend on such luxuries. He went in and charmed the barista into giving him a sample, which he brought out and presented to me like a lord offering his lady a gift. We wandered all over town, exploring streets I'd never set foot on during all my years living there, letting the sun warm us.

I started to forget that he could be a rapist, or a murderer, or anything really. I forgot that he was one of “those people,” that middle-class girls don't associate with.

By the time we said our goodbyes, the sun was hanging low in the sky, and the long shadows swallowed up the street. One by one, the streetlamps flickered on in the dusky twilight. I left him standing by the fountain in the center of town, and he didn't offer to walk me home. I think he saw the suspicion in my eyes, and understood. Perhaps as a man of the streets he understood the necessity for caution even more than I did. I asked him to meet me for lunch the next day, and he smiled.


	2. Envy

  
I reached the church the next day, cheeks puffing. My phone read exactly noon, and the sun stood erect in the sky when I realized with a sinking in my stomach that the doors wouldn't open. I made such a fool of myself pulling and pushing at the door, that a passer-by stopped and counseled me.

“Looking for the soup kitchen? It's at Our Lady of Mercy on Tuesdays. See?” He pointed to a schedule posted at the side of the door. Each day of the week, a different parish hosted the lunches. Mondays were here at Zion Episcopal, but the one John would be waiting for me at was all the way across town. The stranger gave me a too-sympathetic smile and told me, “hang in there. It all gets better.”

I wanted to shout, “I'm not homeless!” but I was already running again at full-speed. If I got lucky and sprinted the whole way, I might get there before John vanished forever. That's what transients do, isn't it? Who knew where he could be tomorrow, and I had no way to contact him. His name might not even be John. It could be Martin. It could be something else entirely.

When I finally reached Our Lady of Mercy, three miles away, I was huffing and sweating with a pang shooting up my side. I strained my eyes desperately around the makeshift dining hall, but couldn't find him amid the hundreds of milling bodies and food trays. Then, his piercing cackle lifted above the din of the room. I followed the sound to a table, where he was seated between a fat, wrinkled woman and a blonde skeleton with bags under her eyes. They were all laughing with mirth out of keeping with their haggard appearances when I turned up. I felt a stab at my heart to see their hands all over him, and how chummy and intimate they all seemed together without me. John looked to be having more fun just sitting around a table with them than he had the entire day with me yesterday. _Why? He's so much better looking than them. I'm cuter, aren't I? Wouldn't he rather be with me?_

“Oh hey, you made it.” John exclaimed, eyes lighting up as he noticed me. I jumped, praying he couldn't read thoughts. “We were worried you weren't going to get here. Thea, meet Candice and Muriel.” 

I blushed. He was happy to see me. I kicked myself again for the jealous thoughts that ran through my mind like a poison. _Candice and Muriel_. They had names. They were people having a rough time at life, and if John liked them better than he liked me, then they had something going for them that I lacked.

“It's Al, actually.” I corrected. “Only my parents call me Thea.”

I could hear the three of them giggling together the entire time I stood in line to get my meal. My stomach growled with more than hunger. A dense pit formed there, like I had swallowed a billiards ball. I was impatient to get back to the table, to show that I could be just as much fun as those new girls. But what if I wasn't? What if he liked them more than me? He probably had more in common with those two. I wondered if he would sleep with them, and my throat went dry. Maybe he already had last night, after I left him at the fountain. _Of course._ He was so charming, so non-threatening and chivalrous. He probably pulled a similar “rescue” stunt on this pair, and was hoping to get further with them than he had with me yesterday.

 _So what? Why should that matter?_ If the people here were so “beneath me,” then I should be happy for John. He found two loose women and was having better luck with them than with prudish, judgmental, snobby me. I guess I just got caught up in the act-- when he snarled, “she's taken,” part of me wished it was true.

I returned with my lunch, deflated. I ate in silence, listening to the others' flirtations and teasing, pondering over Candice's track marks and wondering bitterly if John had his own hidden beneath his long coat. John must have seen the dark cloud hanging above me. When I finally finished, he got up to follow me as I tossed away my paper plate. “Something wrong?” he said under his breath, touching my arm.

“No.” I replied firmly. He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He didn't need to press me any further into releasing my pent-up rant. “Look, I came here to hang out, but you obviously have other plans. Candy and Mur' seem like really nice people, but I don't want to be involved in… in whatever sex thing you guys are planning. I'm sorry if… I misled you, but I'm not into that.”

“What?” he replied, astonished. “You think that's what's going on? They're just lonesome, they like to tease and I let 'em. Come on, you wanna ditch them?”

“No… no, don't bail on your friends.”

“Hey!” John turned and shouted over the crowd, “Me and my girl need some alone time, we'll catch up with you later!” He waved, and the two ladies waved back, already chattering and snickering among themselves.

My cheeks flamed, not just because he had shouted loud enough to draw several stares, but because for the second time in two days, he called me his girlfriend. I was beginning to admit, that was exactly what I wanted. To make it worse, he turned back to me and quietly said, “There. _I'm all yours_.”

My heart jumped.

 _All mine._ I wondered if he meant it. Cautiously, my hand found his, fingertips making soft contact with the coarse pads of his palm. One by one, my fingers found the slots between his and slipped inside, intertwining. He watched the slow drama play out in silence, swallowing a deep breath, and squeezed back.

Sheepishly, I asked, “So… do you have a girlfriend in every town you stop in?”

“It ain’t like that, trust me. I don't have the personality for it. You know I can't stand public places, like the bus stop, and trains... Well how do you think I feel about a woman who opens her legs up for anybody she just met?”

“Did you just compare a woman's body to a public bus station?”

He blanched, eyes widening like headlights at my reproach. “No. It ain't a perfect metaphor. I just… I don't sleep around much, is all I'm saying. You've got nothing to be jealous of… if... if you were interested that way.”

I wanted to deny it, and say something sharp. Something witty, with jagged edges. My mind pulled and stretched for reasons why I couldn't be. He was homeless. A vagrant. He could be a criminal. He could be lying about everything. _If your parents knew you were hanging out with people living on the streets they would lose it._

And suddenly everything became clear-- that terrible way I tried to separate myself from the “lower echelons.” I was desperate to feel above the man who harassed me yesterday, above the homeless women, above the addicts, above everyone who was ultimately in the same place I was. Above John. I felt like I was failing every expectation my parents had put before me-- first, by becoming a writer instead of a lawyer, and second by failing at even being a writer. Here I was taking handouts, somewhere I was never “supposed” to be. And here were good, kind people, laughing and carrying on with their lives even though I was always told they were scary, dangerous, and inferior. But they weren't. Candice and Muriel had faced hardship I couldn't even imagine in my immaculate upbringing, and they were not only surviving, but they were still able to smile and laugh. They were more kind, and vibrant than I ever was. How could a spoiled kid like me pretend to be above them? I only _wanted_ to be above them because I was afraid of losing him. He meant a lot to me… more than he was supposed to.

I had gone quiet with thought, and poor John was left standing there, his words dangling in the void. He gave a nervous chuckle, “Just kidding. Sorry for pretending you're my girlfriend agai--”

Before he could finish, I wrapped my arms around him. It was like hugging a tree; his arms pinned to his side as he inhaled quickly and held the breath. I thought he would pull away, but after a moment, warmth seeped in to his touch, and he softened against me like candle wax. His hands, trembling, found my hips and he let out a long, hot sigh against my neck.

“So,” he ribbed, “You have a boyfriend at every soup kitchen in town?”

******

We spent the day together again. He continued to tutor me about cars and I hung on to every word as if he were the editor-in-chief. Then he showed me how to sneak into a movie theater. I don't remember much about the movie, but I remember that his lips tasted sweet against mine in the dark.

After that, he was always finding an excuse to touch me, and ever by my side. He rested his hand against the small of my back as we walked through the park. As we sat on the bench, watching sun beams sift through the trees, he reached up and brushed an eyelash from my face. I leaned in to find his mouth once again, and felt his smile stretch beneath my lips. We kept testing each other with these little displays of affection until it was certain; we were a couple now.

My self-deprecating side says I did it to prove I wasn't a classist snob and that his homelessness didn't bother me, or that it was a rebellion against my parents. The truth is, I fell for him the same way any girl falls for any handsome man. He made heat rush to my face and between my legs just looking at the carved sculpture of his face. The way he was hard with the world, but soft and careful when we were alone made me feel like the sole invited audience to a secret, intimate play. Even the folksy way he'd wrap his mouth around words, letting his tongue caress every syllable was intoxicating. I shivered imagining all the places that tongue could caress me.

He was charming like no other man had ever been. It wasn't often such a wild, and good-looking guy paid attention to me, and I was falling for it in spite of the warning alarm that kept ringing in the back of my mind: _He's a liar._

This time, when the sky grew dark, I asked where he was staying.

“I've been scoping out that statue there all day. Looks fairly sheltered under it.” he said with a shrug.

“On the street?” I exclaimed, horror-stricken. “What if it rains?”

“Then I get wet.”

“Won't the police harass you?”

He gave another noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “If you stay out of sight no one bugs you. Besides, the worst cops do is send you on your way or lock you up for the night. Which isn't a bad deal if it does rain. Either way, I win.”

“Well… would you like to sleep on a couch, instead?” I offered.

******

My apartment was a small one-bedroom with clothes piled embarrassingly on the floor, but it was warm, dry, and clean. The way he looked upon it with reverent eyes told me it had been awhile since he'd slept anywhere so nice. He spent that night curled gratefully on the couch in my living room. The night after that, I “accidentally” fell asleep next to him, watching TV. The night after _that,_ we dropped all pretense.

I was snuggled tight under the crook of his arm, sinking into the soft cushions of the couch as the television flickered. My eyelids drooped half shut, and each time they blinked it took a little longer for them to open again.

“You gonna fall asleep again?” he posited with a smirk. “Do you like it on the couch that much?”

I blushed at being seen through so easily. “Is that a problem? I didn't mean to cramp you…”

I felt his lips press soft against my temple in reply. I smiled and wriggled in snug against him.

“You know… we would be less cramped on my bed...”

His muscles tightened, and his heartbeat raced like a rabbit pursued. He didn't answer right away, and I wondered what he was so nervous of. John could be like that… one minute he was swaggering and flirtatious, the next he was strained and fragile. Tiny fault lines were etched across the facade he wore, hinting at unknown torment below. He was a man with many buried secrets. Something about intimacy disturbed him as much as crowded public spaces, and I began to suspect he had been an abused child, perhaps subjected to sexual violence. Anyone living on the road as long as he had must have something they were running away from.

“I'm not saying sleep together like sex. I know, you told me… you don't like to move that fast, but, we are dating, aren't we? Is it okay if we sleep next to each other, the same as last night? The bed's just more comfortable.” His tight chest deflated and we sank together deeper into the couch cushions. His arms wrapped around me, as his sharp nose nuzzled against my neck.

Even in bed, he remained almost fully clothed, unlike me. I stripped down to underwear and a loose fitting shirt. I wasn't afraid to be exposed. I felt safe with him… apparently safer than he felt with me. He could stay as protected as he liked; I was happy enough just to have his brown hair draped like a bed of autumn leaves over my pillow. In the blackness of my room, I could hear the soft rhythm of his breath beside me, and feel the warmth of his body radiating through the sheets. It was strange, having slept alone for so long, to have the comforting weight of another body. It was so much warmer than I expected, and I kicked away an unneeded blanket, pressing my chest against him instead.

Outside, rain began to patter against the bedroom window, droplets beating against the glass as the wind picked up. Safe and dry beside my drifter, I smiled and ran my hand over his chest. “Glad you're not on the street tonight?” A smile flickered over his face like a candle's shadow.


	3. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut!!

I found out why he was so uneasy-- or thought I did-- a few weeks later. I started my job, and with his help, I was writing articles about the automotive industry with the insight of a life-long gearhead. John still lived with me, and I kept calling him that name, though I found some ID cards that read “Martin Klamski.” I should been more suspicious, but I liked him. He helped me write, and cooked me meals, and I figured I'd let him have his secrets. The enigma was part of his appeal.

We had a nice little life together, those few weeks.

We had been fooling around more and more, and I was slowly building his comfort with closeness. Each night I convinced him out of another article of clothing, first undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and slipping my hand in to feel the downy curls of his chest. Eventually, he was down to his white cotton undershirt and boxers. I bit my lip, taking in his body, and he flushed at the sultry look in my eyes. The contrast was stark. When he was dressed in his sharp clothes, he looked like the sort of man who could pull a knife at any moment. Exposed, he seemed frail, like he knew how it felt to be stabbed. He looked so much younger, though he was near on a decade my senior. He kissed me tenderly, and held me through the night, but he baffled me with the continued chastity of his touches.

Then one night, I asked for more.

He still changed in the bathroom, as if something terrible might happen if I saw his body. When he emerged, he stopped short, breath catching in his throat. I stood in front of the bed with nothing but the drape of my hair to cover myself, smiling impishly.

“It's been long enough, hasn't it? I want to have sex with you.”

His face grew pale, and he stammered for words. Suddenly I felt like this wasn't a good idea. Something was wrong. My hand flew up automatically to cover my breast. “It's not a demand or anything… I just wanted you to know, I'm ready, if you are.”

With a tense smile, he nodded, and moved to embrace me. His rough hands and cotton shirt felt dreamy against every inch of my exposed skin, though his motions were stiff and clumsy. He kissed me, but it was harder than his usual melting kisses.

“Are you okay? We don't have to do this...” I asked, suddenly acutely aware of my forgotten diagnosis of his past. He nodded, silencing me with another detached kiss. He nibbled his way down my neck to my breasts, running his mouth along their contours. I moaned, forgetting all misgivings, and curled my fingers into his wavy brown hair. He captured one nipple in his mouth, and swirled his tongue around its hard peak, while gently teasing the other between his thumb and forefinger. I gasped, and cried out in ecstasy, pulling him harder against me. He traced up my chest with his mouth, nipping delicately at my collar bone. His chest was heaving with the force of his heavy breath, hot, and tickling against every fine hair on my body. He kissed me again, and I moaned into his lips, as his fingers slipped between my legs. My eyes shot open as a crackle of electric fire shot through my veins while his fingers worked against my wet, tender flesh. "Please... more..." I whimpered. My hips bucked against his hand, positioning his fingers where I most hungered for them. I slid my hand into his boxers to grasp and pump his hard shaft… but couldn't find it. Then I felt it dangling there, too small, too limp for what we were doing. He was still flaccid. He inhaled sharply, and when I looked up in question his face had turned bright red. He pulled away, leaving me suddenly in a void where I had been exploding with sensation. Did he not feel the same way? He bit at his thumb nervously as he paced across the room, nearly shoving his whole fist into his mouth.

“What's the matter?” I asked, trying to sound as gentle as possible, though my alarm was rising.

“I didn't want you to find out,” he gasped. “I… I'm impotent.” he muttered around his thumb, doing his best not to look at me.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I thought that he might not have cared for me at all, that he was just using me for a place to stay. Or something worse. I barely stifled a nervous giggle at what a simple thing it was, and threw my arms around him. He cringed and squared his shoulders, but finally let himself relax into me when I didn't pull away, and began to soothingly rub his back.

“Oh, sweetheart." I sighed, "Is that all it's been? You had me so scared there. That's… that's okay if you can't get it up. They make pills for that, right? If it's medical, we can see a doctor. Or, if not, it still doesn't matter. We don't have to have sex. It's okay, really.” I kept reassuring him, and he kept looking away, hiding his face. I let my voice drop into a sultry tone, “It still feels good if I touch it, right? Even if you can't get it hard? Do you want me to keep going? Does this feel good?” I dropped my hand back into his boxers and caressed his soft member. He drew in a shaky breath, and finally met my eyes again. He looked bewildered, and amazed, full of withered hope, and not a small amount of lust. He brought his lips to mine, pressing hot against me, all his passion and confidence returned. His hand cupped around the back of my head and pulled me against him, tongue flicking between my lips until they parted for him. His slick tongue searched my mouth, finding my own and tracing light circles around it. All the while, my hand worked his soft cock, gently brushing the velvety head, and reaching back to delicately feel his balls.

When he finally released my mouth with a gasp for breath, I dropped to my knees before him, and coaxed his cock out from his boxers. “Would it feel good if I used my mouth?” I asked. He swallowed hard, and nodded. Because it was flaccid, I was able to take in its entirety, dancing around it much like he had played with my tongue while we kissed. He moaned with pleasure, and I felt a tingle as his fingers combed through my hair. I sucked, the pressure engorging him, and released to lick him, delighting in his noises until I felt him grow larger against my tongue. Soon his erection filled up my mouth, and nearly gagged me as it pressed the back of my throat. John's eyes were closed now, and he moved his hips as though entranced. I choked down the urge to gag as he filled me, hands gripping my head, rocking me against him as he thrust. I could feel myself getting wet just listening to his groans as he neared climax, carelessly making love to my face. With a shudder and loud gasp, he released, eyes shooting open as if awaking from a dream. I coughed and spat out the bitter liquid. “Bleh!” I cried, swallowing the remainder with a wrinkled nose. “I'm gonna get some water.”

By the time I got back from the kitchen, seconds later, letting the cool water flush down the sticky semen, John sat shaking on the bed. He apologized so quietly I had to strain to hear him, and his knuckles were white from gripping the sheets. My heart melted.

“No, no, no! Are you kidding? That was fine!” I rushed to throw my arms around him, nearly toppling us both back onto the mattress. “I'm sorry for gagging!”

His carved expression suggested it was more than just that. “You don't even know who I am...”

“You're the impotent man I just got to come in my mouth.” I grinned wickedly, reveling in victory.

“How did I ever find you?” he shook his head, surreptitiously wiping the corner of his eye.

“You pretended to be my boyfriend, and I liked the idea so much I kept you.”

“You're crazy you know.”

“Sheltered childhood. Gotta make up for it _sometime_.”

He grasped me in a hug, and squeezed so tightly I couldn't breathe. With a thump we fell back against the pillows. Muffled into his shirt, I said, “Maybe you're not really impotent at all. I think you just have performance anxiety.”

“Maybe that's true...” he pondered aloud.

“Is there anything that could help? Anything you… like?”

He laughed his odd, cackling laugh, and sighed in thought. Then he looked up at me with his piercing blue eyes, and said, “Shave it.”

“Huh?”

“Down there. I like it smooth.”

“Oh!” I cried with understanding, turning beet red.

******

  
Things got a little weird after that, but good weird.

Morning light played through the vinyl window shades of my bedroom, happy for the Saturday off. John lay partly on top of me, with his elbows dug in like tent posts on either side of my hips, so that he could look up and admire me as I woke up, or lay his head down on my belly. It was serene, as if he were a proud father laying his ear flat against me to hear the baby kick. I wondered if we would have kids someday. I wondered if it was too soon to wonder something like that.

The peace was all broken as John drew his fingertips down my side so lightly that my skin twitched and crawled until I burst out laughing, and slapped his hands away. He grinned, and mercilessly tickled me again so I screamed beneath him. “I like to make you wriggle,” he announced, delighting in my agony as I threw my shoulders and begged him to stop, tears of laughter streaming down my face.

A curious look came into his eyes, instantly replacing his levity.

“What was your favorite thing to do as a kid?” he asked, tipping his head slightly to one side.

I told him I liked to eat pizza, and play dress-up, and hide away in secret places only I knew about. The latter piqued his interest, and he asked me to show him my favorite spot to play as a little girl.

We found it at the edge of the park-- a cluster of trees that made a perfect circle, with low branches that hid us from the world behind a tapestry of leaves. My special hiding place.

He laid me on the sun-dappled moss, fingers sliding under the elastic band of my underpants. He slipped them down, revealing my pink slit and still stinging-red waxed labia. He studied it with curiosity, lowering himself closer and closer in inspection, until I blushed and cried out, "Stop it, that's embarrassing!" His tongue darted between his lips, and spread my warm opening. My back arched, and I gasped at the sweet violation. With a hungry growl, he gripped my thighs and dragged me up off the rough ground toward him. My legs spread for him as he licked me, suspended helplessly against his mouth. I moved my hips against him, feeling the resistance of my thighs against his steely arms. I placed a hand on his head and guided him to the uppermost part of my folds, and let my body melt into the rhythm of his tongue and the heat of his breath. I bit my lip to hold in moans and soft mewling noises, and had to fight with my body which wanted nothing more than to go hoarse with screams. Once I was dripping and quaking with pleasure and biting my hand in frustration, he set me down and rose up on his knees above me.

I fumbled for his belt, releasing him from his pants. It only took a moment of my lips wrapping around him, tongue feathering his warm shaft, before he was hard. Soon, his pink head was pressed to my yearning opening, and pushed in. I rose to meet him, letting slip a soft, ecstatic sob as he filled me for the first time. He made love to me beneath the trees of my youth. Despite the little sticks and pebbles that clung to my back and his knees, I had never had an experience so exciting, nor a lover so impassioned. As he rocked on top of me, thrusting between my smooth lips, it was like the blue-eyed drifter was invading my childhood. I closed my eyes and pretended I was still a kid, hiding away from over-protective parents when he found me and defiled me. I shuddered and writhed against him, as if he were that kind of monster. He wanted a taste of my innocence, and I craved his corruption. He claimed me, and I welcomed it. It was just the right amount of kink-- he was filling me with every excitement and danger I had missed, and I couldn't help but think how my parents would react if they knew I was with a man like him. It would be a greater betrayal than becoming a writer.

With a shudder and a cry so loud I feared someone would hear us, he broke. He collapsed over me, crushing me into the ground, and wouldn't let me get up or look at him for several minutes. We lay there together, with his hot breath shaking in my ear, stickiness slowly dripping as his engorged member deflated inside me. When he turned his head back, his eyes were dry, but red. The entire walk out of the park, he kept looking over his shoulders in paranoia, and he barely said more than an icy word to me until we had reached home and showered.

Though it seemed to disturb him each time, he never neglected to fuck me in all manner of creative places. He was insatiable as a teenager after his first time, and I had to wonder if it _had been_ his first time. He had been convinced that he was impotent, until I broke through the fear that he couldn't get off with a woman. Often it did take an effort to get him fully erect, but I didn't mind staying on my knees as long as it took him. I loved to feel his erection spring to life under the encouraging flicks of my tongue. It wasn't something I had enjoyed with any other man, but he always tasted meticulously clean, and my dedication eased his nerves. Knowing I had the power to draw him out and fulfill him as no woman had drove me wild, and he rewarded me in kind. He loved the silky skin I maintained for him, and would spend tireless ages bringing me to my peak and back down again, as if he never wanted to stop. I often had to push him, panting, out from between my thighs to let him know I was finished. Then I would savor his warm, humid breath across my belly, until he crawled his way up to snuggle next to me.

Only one other thing helped him as much as the teasing of my mouth.

He loved to hear me talk about myself, and often begged for long stories about me growing up. I'd be in the middle of an embarrassing tale about a birthday party gone wrong, when he would suddenly growl like an animal, pin me down, and tear my clothes off. Afterward, he would cry, and I would hold him until his convulsions ceased. Then we would pretend it hadn't happened. Given what little I knew of his life, I guessed that my tales of a happy, normal childhood had a peculiar effect.

I was a fool to let a stranger into my life so blithely.


	4. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: if you don't want to be upset, you may want to stop here.

As time went on, I began to worry about when he was going to leave. He was a drifter, after all. He said he'd been on the road for nearly ten years and had no intention of stopping… but he never mentioned plans to leave me. I had a career, and I couldn't go with him if he left, and I didn't want to trap him by asking him to stay… but I realized more and more how much my heart would break to be without him.

He was feeling the pressure, too, or so I believed at the time. Things became more and more eccentric with him, and at the same time, more domestic. He was like having a live-in maid. Determined not to be a burden, he made up for his lack of income by cooking, doing the laundry, and even singing for me-- which I discovered was one of the ways he made money on his travels. We would sing Bridge Over Troubled Water, alternating lines, a cloaked promise to take care of each other. I gave him an old cell phone and added a line to my plan, so I wouldn't get worried if he wandered during the day. We even squabbled like an old couple about our favorite cars, now that I had my own opinions on the subject. Yet, sometimes he would hold on to me so hard I thought I would faint, like he wanted to crush me into him and never let go. He would sulk for long periods, and I'd catch him crying for seemingly no reason. He kept on telling me I didn't know him, I didn't know him… but if I asked him about himself he wouldn't tell me. He would launch into some grand, illustrious tale of fiction, or tense up and change the subject. I preferred it when he lied. At least then I could attempt to divine some hidden truth in the fabrication.

Sometimes he was a car thief ratted out by his closest friends, or the child of hobos, born in a boxcar with rambling in his blood. Sometimes he killed a man. Other times he tried to save the man from drowning, but got blamed for his death instead. In all his stories, he was never a good man, but always the tragic anti-hero, chained to his fate.

I wondered if I really _was_ harboring a criminal. Could I go to jail for helping him, if he was a fugitive? I wanted him to stay, all the same. I didn't care if he'd killed a man; I needed his rough hands, and his soft breath, and his cold eyes burning holes in me as I fell asleep beside him.

At my cousin's 30thbirthday party, the dream I'd been living in finally fell apart.

I hadn't seen my older cousin, Becky, in a long time, but since it was the mark of her descent into senility (so said the novelty invitations), she wanted all us cousins to gather at her house for ice cream cake and hard liquor. There would be a few kids there, but we planned to distract them with her above-ground pool and keep them outside so us grown-ups could get tipsy at the minibar. Guess that's the type of house you can afford when you do what your parents say and get a “real job.” Being a marketing manager was definitely serving her well, and so was having a dentist for a husband. My life choices meant I still rented a studio apartment, sans minibar.

At first, I was giddy to introduce my transient boyfriend to the party. If I couldn't be rich, I could at least be crazy. John suggested we tell everyone he was a singer traveling with a band.

“I've sung for money before. It's not a big lie, but it makes a difference in how people see you. If you're just homeless, wandering for no reason, people get nervous.”

“Good.” I smiled smugly. I wanted them to be nervous. I wanted everyone to think he was dangerous, and then I wanted them to eat their words of caution when they saw how happy we were together. When they saw how gentle, and harmless he really was.

As we walked up, however, I stopped on my heels and felt the blood drain from my face. My parents were there. They weren't supposed to be there, but there they were in the doorway. Only seconds before they saw me. Panic rose in my stomach. “Okay, tell them something else. Lie. _Lie._ ” I hissed in his ear.

I clutched his hand, and he grasped me around the waist like a debonair virtuoso.

“Oh, so you made it!” my mother's shrill tone rang out over the other party guests and loud music. “You never write, you never call, it's like we don't even have a daughter. We had to come all the way here just to see you, our own child!”

“Hi mom...” I grumbled, trying to sound happy. I had to extract my hips from John's grip to give my mother an obligatory hug, and she suddenly noticed I had a companion. I stiffened. She wouldn't guess he was a drifter. Martin dressed too well for that. My gut clenched, anyway. Somehow she would sense it by motherly telepathy.

“And who is this?” she asked, imitation ruby earrings glinting down like evil eyes. He introduced himself as a musician, which to my mother was barely a step over being a transient. She began talking down to him right away, but her main focus was _my_ failure for dating him. “A musician is worse than a writer,” she scolded. “How can you ever hope to pay the bills, much less have a quality life you deserve on that income? Your father and I aren't getting any younger-- you need to settle down with someone who will support our grandchildren.” Her condescension weighed me down like a lead blanket. I couldn't bear thinking part of me was like her. I nearly exclaimed that I was pregnant with his child, but I bit my tongue against the rising anger. As much as I'd love to see her face, as she thought about her precious daughter having starving-artist babies, she would make a scene, and when the lie was finally dragged out of me, she'd be furious.

I didn't want to make them happy by following the path _they_ wanted for me. I didn't want to hear their false, patronizing flattery. Telling them my writing was no longer freelance, however, and that I worked out of an office for steady paychecks relaxed both of my parents tremendously. They patted my back, as I feared they would, and congratulated me for being stable. I wanted to uproot right then and there, and travel the country with John.

My achievement of holding an adult job at least got them off my case for the time being. I promised to call more often, fingers crossed behind my back, and they left me and John to enjoy the party.

Things started to go well for a little while after that.

The house was modern and immaculate, with white walls, white curtains, and polished bamboo floors. The open floor plan was choked with relatives and friends, whose bodies were bouncing with the heavy drum-machine beats of 80's rock. Becky's dark curls were crimped and teased as she belted a Joan Jett song into the microphone. She had a karaoke machine set up for the party, so everyone could be transported back to the tacky decade in which she was born. John hated crowds, and I could tell he was uncomfortable amid the cheering bodies, because he was fully masked with his swaggering persona. He started laughing loud, and often, and flirting with anyone who talked to us. He jumped up on the make-shift stage when Becky was done, and proved his vocal talent with an experienced rendition of I've Been Everywhere. Everyone was drawn to his charming air and velvety voice, and he relaxed into his new identity as a front man. The trickster was in full swing, delighting in weaving his cover story.

I actually got a little jealous of my own cousin, when he stood too close to wish her a happy birthday, and complimented her eyes. I knew how much anxiety about sex he had hidden beneath this flirtatious disguise, but I couldn't help growl under my breath. Becky was married to the dentist, I repeated to myself, with a five year old kid. _Besides, only I can satisfy John's particular needs in bed_.

Still, I didn't like how distant he was being with me. I wanted everyone to know we were together, that the handsome, rakish singer was here with the youngest, shyest cousin. He acted like he was afraid to touch me, planting his roving hands in his pockets, and holding back his spontaneous kisses. Then I realized, after the disapproving shakedown from my parents (who were still hovering around somewhere), he was probably afraid of _me_ being seen with _him_. I caught his wrist and pulled him into a kiss right in front of the karaoke stage, and he melted against me. My heart fluttered in my chest. That set him straight, and he contentedly kept his hand slipped in mine.

_You belong with me, got it?_

The screen door slid open with a satisfactory hiss, and we stepped out into the open air where John could have a reprieve from the constant crush of people and deafening boom of music. He squirted out a dollop of Purell he'd taken to carrying, and wrung it together in his hands. A tinkle of high laughter emanated from the pool as several bathing-suit clad children splashed, sprinting circles around its circumference, then diving in again. John smiled up at them like the sun breaking through a cloud, but just as quickly dark clouds swallowed him up again. He looked away, staring dismally at the ground, and clenched my hand. I was certain, then, he'd been abused. Whatever his childhood had been, it looked nothing like this; bright-faced friends carelessly playing. It would explain so many of his strange behaviors, and his transient lifestyle. Seeing kids growing up in a stable environment like this must have stung him in the deepest shadows of his heart.

We weren't outside long before shouts rang out through the house in a relay message-- “Group photo! Family photo!”

My cousin came and tugged at my arm, “Althea, we're all going to take a big picture. Come on. John can watch the kids for a minute, right?”

I turned to him with a wink, “You can keep my little cousins… wait… second cousins? Cousin once removed? You can keep them from drowning for five minutes, right sweetie?”

His face turned parchment white. “What, don't you want me in your family photo?” he joked, knowing full well nobody wanted some transient that I dated for a few weeks to show up in a photo we'd be reminiscing over twenty years later. Still, my heart sank for him, and I flushed with shame. Even if our relationship was new, and unlikely to last, I didn't want him to feel excluded. I wanted him to be there, twenty years later, reminiscing too. He laughed his wild, cackling laugh to show he wasn't serious. Yet, as I turned to go inside, he seemed to cling to me with his eyes, pleading not to be left. _It's good for him,_ I thought. _If we are going to have a life together, it's good for him to get used to seeing what a healthy childhood looks like._

I was so stupid.

When I got back, not five minutes later, he was sitting with his legs crossed in the beach chair by the pool, watching the kids with bulging eyes. A vein looked ready to pop from his forehead, as if he had taken his guarding job so seriously, his eyes couldn’t part from his charges. When the screen door slid open, and I bounced out to rejoin him, he nearly jumped from the chair. But he didn't. He stayed firmly seated and didn't get up to greet me.

“Alright, I'm back! You still alive?” I announced. He looked at me anxiously. He was sweating and breathing hard, as though he'd just been jogging. Then I noticed the bulge between his legs.

He noticed me notice and flew to his feet in a panic, but it was only more obvious when he was standing. I ran to him, half to block his condition from the kids, and half to clandestinely grope him to confirm with my hand what my eyes didn't want to understand. He was erect. Completely, and fully. How could that be? I had barely left, and it always took him longer than that to get…

Then it hit me, like a brick of unwanted truth hurtling at my face.

_Impotent._

That's what he told me, but it was never quite true. I thought it was simple performance anxiety. He _was_ nervous that he couldn't get hard for me that first time, but it was more than that. It was because my body wasn't quite enough to arouse him. He needed more. He wanted me to wax. He liked when I described myself as a kid. He liked kids. He _liked kids._

I could feel my intestines curling up and uncurling like the claws of a monster, and the world began to spin. My hand covered my mouth to hold in the bile rising in my throat. And then he was gone. He had seen the realization-- the disgust-- on my face and he knew he was found out. He didn't bother to leave by the front door, but disappeared over the fence like the stray animal that he was. I didn't see him go. I didn't care where he went. I brought him here, not knowing him, blindly trusting him, and I put everybody in danger.

 _Oh god,_ I thought. _I brought a predator to the house and left him alone with the kids. Oh god! They'll never forgive me if he hurt them. What have I done?_

I looked with panic to where they were all still playing, same as when I left. I ran to my little cousin-once-removed, as she leaned, dripping, over the edge of the pool. I grasped her shoulders a little too forcefully.

“Did John do anything?” I demanded, voice cracking.

“What do you mean?” she gasped. She looked more afraid of _me_ than anything. I modulated my voice, trying to mask my distress.

“Did he do anything... weird?”

She giggled. “Weirder than you, aunt Al?”

 _Smart-ass freaking kids._ Apparently John hadn't done anything but sit there in that lawn chair by himself. The kids had barely noticed they had a lifeguard. A wolf playing Lassie.

So he hadn't _done_ anything… though the watching was bad enough. At least they had no idea of his perverse thoughts, and I meant to keep it that way. Just then, my cousin came up behind me and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Where did your boyfriend go?” Becky asked.

“We, uh, we just got in a little spat. I should go...”

“No, stay! Drink. Forget about him, tell us what happened!”

Nobody could _ever_ know what happened. Nobody could ever know how I idiotically put the family in danger.

“I can't right now… I need to be alone… Happy birthday, I'm so sorry about this.”


	5. Love

I hurried home, petrified that he would be there, but there was no sign of him. All of his things were where he had left them, like nothing had happened. His unpacked duffel bag lay forgotten in a corner by the door. He had just vanished like smoke. He had so little to his name, I wondered if he'd bother to come back for his possessions at all. I shuddered at the thought that I might wake up one morning to find the bag gone. He knew where I lived. He could break in whenever he wanted.

My heart stung, like tiny needles ripping it apart bit by fleshy bit. It didn't feel right to be afraid of him. Hours ago I had cared about him, trusted him. I knew full well he was odd, and had secrets, but this had been beyond my guessing. It was too horrible. He was a sick, sexually deviant criminal, and I had fallen for his charms believing I was special. I let him use me; let him imagine I was a child while he was fucking me without even realizing it. I was his enabler.

I had to understand how this was possible.

I scoured Wikipedia, and WebMD, Googling keywords that probably put me on an FBI watch list. As my eyes darted across the glowing screen, the sharp needles jabbing my insides turned dull and aching. Tears were pouring down my face by the time I closed my laptop, and took out my phone.

There were many details, and case studies, and factors, but two things stood out to me as if they were highlighted in exploding neon lights: pedophiles are born that way, they don't choose it, and not all pedophiles are child molesters.

In fact, the more I read, the more my heart broke for John. He had no more choice in his attraction than I did in being attracted to men, but he could never, ever act on it without hurting someone. He could never even talk to anyone about it. Wikipedia said that many pedophiles experience less arousal toward adults… hence his “impotence.” He must have been so lonely… so hopeless that he'd ever be able to find love.

He hadn't tried to do anything to my cousin's daughter. Maybe he didn't want to hurt anybody. He had those awful, repulsive desires, but he didn't want to act on them. He was with _me_ , a consenting adult, and he clung to me desperately at night, as if he was afraid to let me go… The horror in his eyes when I left him with those kids.He hated his sexuality, and he knew if I found out, I'd hate him too. He spent his life drifting from place to place, in constant terror of anyone getting to know the real him.

_And the moment I found out, I did exactly what he knew I would._

I resolved myself, eyes welling with pity, that if he really hadn't ever molested a child, then I would take him back. I'd even keep waxing myself, so he could pretend. He could do whatever he wanted, so long as it was with _me_.

I typed two words into my phone, and hit send.

“Come home.”

But he didn't come home. He didn't text me back, or respond to my next text, or the next one, or the voicemail I left in a shaking voice, all bearing the same message. “Come back. Come home.”

The next day, I spent the entire day looking for him, praying it wasn't too late. I stopped by the soup kitchen-- finding the right location for Saturday. I ran into Candy and Muriel. They looked nicer than I remembered when last I saw them through a haze of jealousy and superiority. I think I had described them as a fat woman and a skeleton, but Muriel now seemed plump, but attractive, and Candice was thinner, but not so much thinner than me. Funny how the mind can distort things. Her track marks, that I had scoffed at, seemed to be healing, and I smiled, hoping she was getting the help she needed. They hadn't seen John since he came to live with me; nobody had. The statue bore no signs of being slept behind, the fountain in the center of town was deserted, and the river's surface was glassy and unbroken.

I kept sending messages, but I knew he must have thrown away his phone, or the batteries were dead… or _he_ was dead.

I sank with the sun onto my couch. I couldn't even put on the television without imagining John there next to me, his regular breathing lulling me to sleep. Everything reminded me of him. Something as simple as a plate, or a sock tossed haphazardly on the floor could send shivers of anguish surging down my spine. I had almost lost hope, when a tiny, fragile knock came at the door. My breath stopped in my chest. The clock on my wall stopped ticking. I floated like a sleepwalker across the room and slowly cracked open the door, and found his dark, scraggly hair waiting on the other side. His shirt smelled of cement and cold rain, and thick purple rings sagged under his eyes. I wondered if he'd got my messages at all, or if he simply exhausted himself and had nowhere else to go. He nearly collapsed through the door.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, hunched over the side ready to leap up again at a moment's notice. I cautiously sat next to him, and he flinched like a wild animal waiting to be attacked. I wanted to scoop him up in my arms, smooth his hair, and tell him it was all okay. I didn't hate him. Looking at his broken face, I didn't think I could ever hate him. But I had to know. I needed to understand.

“I looked up pedophilia. That's what you are, right? A pedophile?”

His head sunk deeper below the horizon of his shoulders, like he wanted to curl up inside of himself. It must have been true, so I continued.

“I didn't know anything about it yesterday, except the awful stories you hear on the news. I looked it up for you, because I knew you couldn't be that evil. You couldn't be. What I read… It said you were born like this. It… it isn't your fault. You're not a monster. You can't decide who you're attracted to any more than I can. It's… it's a neurological disease. I don't know how I could think it was something you did on purpose... that you're out there hunting children. I knew I couldn't be _that_ wrong about you. You can't help being attracted… but…” I swallowed, dreading the next question like it were a creaky stair at the top of a tall, tall staircase. “You've never done anything to child before, besides just looking?”

He drew in a sharp breath and held it, frozen, unwilling to look up from where he stared at the floor. The stair didn't bear weight, and I plummeted though the empty air. I sank onto my elbows, letting my hands swallow up my face as tears squeezed out and I choked down barely stifled sobs. _He has. He may have only looked at my little cousins, but he has done more than that._ I sat, melting into my knees for a long time, with him refusing to speak or look at me, either.

My voice trembled out from between my palms, “Would I find you on a sex offender registry? I tried to look you up, but I don't even have a last name. It's not Martin Klamski.”

Finally, a soft, hoarse voice graveled, “Try under Joachim Boor.”

I was startled by the broken stillness of the room. I had stopped expecting him to give any answers. “You don't look like a Joachim.” I replied lamely.

He gave a laugh that was barely more than an exhaled breath. “I never liked it, either. My family is German, but I was raised in South Carolina. I've been John for a long time. Or Martin, or James. Once I tried Randall, that never stuck.”

“ _God_. I really don't know you at all, do I?”

“No.”

A hush fell over the room again, as I thought about it. About how stupid I was. About how wrong it was that I still felt sorry for him. He had hidden his past for so long. Every time he cried with no explanation, he had been choking on his own poison. Wondering when I would find out and leave. I still saw the disturbance in his eyes, the hunted look of a beast with its leg in a trap. He was tortured by his own mind, and I couldn't decide whether to hate him or hold him.

“If I looked up Joachim Boor in a sex offender database… what would it say?”

He hesitated. “'Lewd-lascivious conduct with child' is the _official_ term for it. That's all the database would say, with a date, and a little red warning that says 'non-compliant,' and 'high risk.' When you turn tail and run, and stop seeing the useless fuckin' doctors, they don't put you back in jail, they just put a little red mark next to your name. But you want to know more than what's on the registry, don't you? You want to know the details.”

Now it was my turn to fall silent. My shoulders took a hard squared edge as I considered it. I didn't want to hear it in his own words. That might make it real. He might say something there was no coming back from, and I'd have to hate him. I didn't want to know. But I had to know. I had fallen for him, knowing nothing about him but the lies he told me, and now maybe, finally, I would hear the truth. He took the answer in my eyes with a resigned nod.

“I never meant to hurt anyone…” he began, looking from me, to the floor. “I knew it was wrong to even think the way I was thinking, about _kids_. It wasn't _normal,_ and I knew that. I was 19. I'd never been with a woman, but I still had all the drive for sex… it was just pointed the wrong direction. The temptation was always there, day after day, and my hormones were stronger than my half-wit brain.

“My mother's friend had a daughter; a cute little blond girl around five or six. She was always so sweet to me. They let me babysit her while they went out to do God knows what. They didn't know how long I'd been pent up; how hungry I was for it… She didn't know how hard it was not to look at her little girl the way normal men look at Playboy models. I knew I shouldn't have done it, but I figured, what harm could it do? I tried to get her to… to touch my… my penis. She did what I asked, just like a curious little girl would. She wasn't scared or anything. It didn't do any harm… It didn't seem to. I wondered, why did I want her to touch me so bad? If it was so wrong, then why did I like it? What was wrong with me? I started to think the world was wrong-- there was no harm in what we were doing. God, I was so turned on. I wanted to touch her, too, but she wouldn't let me, and I didn't push it. I thought it was all… perfectly innocent at the time. But she told her mom what happened, and I spent the next three years in jail learning. I learned what it means to be small, and helpless. To have things done to you that you don't... ask for. Now I know… I know I fucked up really bad. There are a hundred things I could say, but nothing could ever excuse what I did.

“I've been traveling ever since then. I never stop moving, so I never get close enough to a family to do that again. I don't want to hurt any more kids, but I don't know… I don't know if I could stop myself if I got left alone. I still can't help it when I look at them, it makes me feel… I can't explain it. I talked myself into crossing the line once. I convinced myself it wasn't hurting anyone, and I know I could persuade myself again. There's something broken inside me… something rotten that I can't control. I shouldn't have gotten so excited, watching those kids, but they were so… so close. It's been so long since I've been that close. Sticking around with you this long was a mistake. I let you trust me enough to let me alone with children.”

“If you just can't be alone with them-- if you really don't want to hurt them-- then why didn't you just _tell me_ you couldn't be left alone? You let me walk away _knowing_ it was dangerous!”

“Oh, yes, of course. How would that conversation have gone? 'Please don't leave me alone with these kids, honey, I'm a pedophile and I might--'” his mocking voice caught in his chest, and his face crumpled in the effort to fight through it. “'--I might try to do something to 'em. I might fuck up and traumatize them for life.' How do you suppose that would have gone? There was nothing I could say that wouldn't make you suspicious...”

“You could have told me the truth. Don't you trust me?”

“Yes!” he snarled, fists balling up the fabric of the bed sheets, “And that's exactly why I could _never_ tell you. The more I trusted you, the more I couldn't bear to lose you. Do you know how much you mean to me? I've never felt this close to being normal… I was starting to believe it could really work. But I knew it was only a matter of time. Our days were numbered from the start, but I was counting each and every one of them. I should have told you, but I wasn't ready for it to be over. If you ever knew the truth, you'd throw me out. I couldn't risk losing you.”

Tears welled in my eyes, gathering heavy on the lower lid until a blink dripped them down my cheeks. What he said was true. He could never be loved by someone who knew who he really was. How could they, knowing what he'd done?

“That doesn't change the fact that you would still put a child in danger.” I wept. As he looked shamefully to the floor, face contorting in self-disgust, I couldn't take it anymore. I wrapped my arms protectively around him, and buried my wet face into his chest.

“Don't...” he said, voice shaking. “Don't cry… don't cry over me.” I could feel his wet teardrops pattering like rain against my hair.

The next morning, I woke up still in all of my clothes, with his slight frame still locked in my arms. Tears crusted my eyelids nearly shut, and I had to rub them out of my lashes. He was wearing his jacket, button-down, and slacks, as if he might wake up and walk straight out the door, never to bother me again. His breathing was steady and rhythmic under me, with a face so peaceful and innocent that last night seemed a bad dream. I wanted to forget the past two days, and go back to how things were. _How could one so angelic be capable of something so ugly?_

He loved me. The more I thought on it, the more it was unmistakable. He had been so surprised when I made him come the first time. When I told him it was okay if he was impotent. His eyes had shone with a wonder at this new possibility… that someone could accept him. Every time I told him I cared about him, he would sulkily insist that I didn't know him. He loved me for accepting his oddities, but couldn't trust me with the true reason behind them. He was born attracted to children, and once, he had acted on it. This was the secret he was afraid to tell-- that he was certain would turn me from him once and for all.

He was right to be afraid. The thought of what he did made me want to run to the bathroom and empty my stomach into the porcelain bowl. I didn't want to know that the cock I reveled in pleasing was once exposed to a child, and that every time I got him hard he was probably pretending _I_ was a child. It was sickening.

I wanted to turn from him, but something called me back. Something stronger than disgust held me firm.

He wasn't a fugitive. He had served his punishment under the law, and in his mind he remained shackled in a prison of guilt. Every time he found himself happy with me, he was brought back to his shame. What more could I ask, other than that he'd never done it? But it was far too late to take it back now. The past is an eternal monument, but the future should always be free to choose. Did his mistake forever forfeit his right to happiness? He wanted to change. He'd spent the past ten years on the road, avoiding all social ties just to stay away from kids. Doesn't he deserve a second chance? To live a normal life? Is his soul forever tainted by what he did years ago, what he regrets every day? Can't he be shown mercy? Can he be loved? Is it okay if I love him?

In that moment, mind racing in the early morning light, I realized I _did_ love him. I had liked him all along, when he was a sexy, enigmatic stranger… but it wasn't until the enigma unraveled to reveal something repugnant that I _could_ truly love him. What is love, but knowing something unforgivable, and forgiving anyway? Perhaps I was blinded by that love. One day, a year from now, or five years from now, I might wake to see pages of the calendar scattered and shredded around me: time I had wasted on a worthless scumbag, never to get back.

Yet, I wanted to see how far love could take us. I didn't want him to go back to his anonymous existence of hiding behind a mask; of drifting like a ghost through this world, dreading anyone getting to know the real him. I could stare down the monstrous truth of his past, and still see the fragile man underneath. I was ready to throw my life at the cause of saving him. If he was with me, I could be his watchdog. I was willing to do that-- to be always on-guard, to hold his hand when kids were near and make sure he behaved. Now that I knew, I could give him whatever he needed. I could give him a home to come back to. He didn't have to wander the Earth alone anymore.

_I want to see if my pitiful monster can be redeemed._

Laying back beside him on the bed, I felt his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. I pressed my lips to his salty cheek, and waited for his eyes to flutter open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you made it to the end! I hope it goes without saying that this story is not meant to condone child molestation in any way. Al's google searching of pedophilia is a direct parallel to my own after watching Istanbul. Yes in fact, it is a mental illness. It's a sexuality as set in stone as being gay or straight, and people who suffer from it have to deal with shame, fear of discovery, and the prospect of never having a sexual relationship-- even if they never act on their attraction. It's honestly really sad. 
> 
> I know I didn't have to make this character one who had given in to his impulses, but the character in Istanbul had, and frankly, I wanted to push the limits of human forgiveness.


End file.
